It Should've Been Me
by ninjadevil2000
Summary: George is suffering from PTSD, survivor's guilt, and grief after the Battle of Hogwarts and losing Fred. He sees and remembers his twin everywhere he goes. All he wants is to see his brother again. Can someone bring him back from the edge? Or will the Weasley twins end up together once more? TRIGGER WARNING


**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own Harry Potter. I'm just borrowing the characters to beat them up ;)

**Written for Round 3 of the IWSC Season 2 - St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**

**School and Year**: Mahoutokoro, Year 3

**Theme**: Spell Damage

**Main Prompt**: [Emotion] Heartbreak (used platonically, as in brotherly)

**Additional** **Prompts**: [Quote] "It's not whether you get knocked down, it's whether you get up," and [Emotion] Fear

**Theme and Prompt explanation at the bottom of the story.**

**Word count: 3300**

**Fairly major trigger warning for self harm and grief/loss. Also, sensations of claustrophobia and vertigo/dizziness ARE actually symptoms of PTSD and bereavement. NOT for the faint of heart.**

**Dedicated to my best friend Liz! **She and I share a love of whump and hurt/comfort (mostly hurt) so this is a present of sorts for her, as we've been best friends for a year as of this story being posted. Also, huge thanks to her for beta reading this. I swear, she makes the fic ten times better.

* * *

George stood at the threshold of his old room at the Burrow. His and Fred's room. He'd been sleeping on the sofa for the past two weeks since the battle, unable to even think of entering that room.

Now, his eyes just wandered around. Nothing was out of the ordinary or different. Their old clothes and trinkets lay around the room like the fourteen year old versions of themselves should still be laughing on the floor or planning their next prank.

Silent tears slid down George's face. It was as though the room was mocking him, tauntingly asking where his brother was. He bit his lip as he took a shaky step forward toward Fred's bed. The bright colored posters on the walls glared at him as he took another step.

When he reached the mattress, he covered his face with his hands, unable to look at anything else. His whole body was shaking as he mentally repeated the words he'd been telling himself over and over again for the past two weeks.

_This isn't real. This isn't happening. This _can't_ be happening. _

He fell onto the mattress, and the next thing he knew, he was curled up in the blankets that, miraculously, still smelled like his lost half. He let out a muffled moan. A sound full of despair and pain. It was tearing into him. His chest ached. It felt as though someone had reached into him and crushed his heart into a million tiny pieces.

Still as a corpse, George lay on that bed for the rest of the day. His eyes were open but he couldn't see anything. He vaguely remembered one or two of his family coming and checking on him, asking him a question or saying dinner was ready, but he didn't care. He eventually fell into a doze; it was a relief for a few minutes, but then, it became a whole different kind of hell.

* * *

He was standing in the Gryffindor Common Room. It looked perfect. With red and gold tapestries strewn about the place, a fire crackling in the grate nearby, and Fred sitting on the carpeted floor.

"Hey, Georgie," Fred said, his eyes bright. Alive.

"Freddie!" George yelled. He dove to the ground and wrapped his twin in a suffocatingly-huge hug.

"Are you alright? Where are you? Why haven't you come back?"

"I can't come back, George. Besides, why would I want to?" Fred's smile only lasted for a moment, and then it suddenly fell away, replaced with an emotionless mask.

"Wh–what?" George stuttered. "But, don't you want to come back? What about the shop? What about the two of us? I miss you, Freddie! More than anything! I feel like it's tearing me up inside when I think of another day, or even another hour, without you."

"Sorry, Georgie," Fred said, though his voice held no hint of remorse. In fact, it sounded . . . almost spiteful. Cold. "But this is your fault. It should've been you."

_This is your fault. It should've been you._

_This is your fault. It should've been you._

* * *

George bolted upright. Tears were pouring down his face. He'd been having similar dreams night after night, but they would all end exactly the way. With Fred's pale, cold face staring at him.

"I'm sorry, Freddie," George whispered for no one to hear. "You're right. It should've been me." He clenched the blankets and sheets in his hands again, trying to stop them from shaking, before grabbing his wand from beside him.

_"__Diffindo,"_ he murmured with only a moment's hesitation, the tip of his wand pressed to the inside of his wrist. Pebbles of blood bubbled as a slit appeared in the skin.

"Gah!" George gasped. He bit his lip but couldn't stop a whimper escaping. A remaining tear slid down his cheek. He muttered the spell again and again, until he'd made seven or eight cuts. Each cut came with an instant sense of relief, small but significant. As though along with the blood, some of the pain and heartbreak was leaving him too. He breathed out as he held his arm gingerly and stood, proceeding to make his way to the nearby bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He washed away the blood with a cloth before letting his hands hang under the water.

He'd started this a few days after the battle. The first few cuts had been accidental, but it had given him an odd sense of relief, so he'd started doing it purposefully. Now, he felt hungry and exhausted. A moment of strength had come with the pain, but now he just felt tired.

George shook his head and ran a hand across his face before returning to the bedroom and laying down across Fred's bed again. His eyes felt dry and swollen, but that didn't stop the tears from starting again as he fell asleep.

* * *

From the moment his eyes opened the next morning, George felt the weight of guilt and fear pressing down on him, stronger than it had felt any day previously.

He went downstairs and grabbed a bit of toast before going upstairs again, avoiding the family. His mother tried to give him a hug; Percy tried to speak to him, but he passed by them both without a word.

He went back into the room and sat on the bed, numbly nibbling at the toast. George stayed in that position on that bed for a while, not too sure what time it was or how long he'd even been awake. He rubbed a hand over his face. It was as though he'd been in a trance ever since he'd awoken. When he opened his eyes after a moment, something caught his gaze. A scrap bit of parchment laying on the dusty floor under a dresser.

George went over and picked it up with trembling hands. The ink was smudged, but George could've understood that handwriting if it was pitch black and raining outside. Because it was like his. But it wasn't. It was Fred's handwriting. The "g"s and "j"s on the page stood out to him, similar to his own, but carrying more of a curve. Ironically, George also sought out the "e"s and the "h"s, all precisely straight.

As George read the paper, he saw that it was just a random note he and Fred had jotted down one afternoon. They had been sitting up in their room, trying to come up with marketing ideas, merchandise, a name for their shop.

George bit his lip as tears threatened to fall again. It was stupid really. It was just a piece of parchment. Just some silly words. Completely meaningless. Why should it make him cry? Why did this damn paper make his heart pound faster and make the room start to tilt?

He felt trapped; he needed out. Needed to escape. There were too many memories, too many feelings, too many . . . it was just too much. George scrambled out of the door and down the stairs with a clatter. From far away, he heard his mother calling to him, but he didn't pay attention to her as he escaped out the door.

It was oddly cold for a May afternoon, but George didn't mind it. It seemed to suit him. It suited the coldness he felt in his heart. Did he even deserve the warmth anymore?

George couldn't explain what had happened that afternoon that eventually had him walking through the streets Muggle London, but he found himself grateful for it later on.

He walked down the street with an ease that he felt was lost to him in the Wizarding community. Here, nobody knew his name; nobody asked him for an autograph or about new products being released. Nobody bothered him with questions about him or his family or Harry. Here, he was just a normal citizen, a normal young man walking down the street. Nobody here knew about his brother. Nobody here was going to come up and pester him with their meaningless condolences.

For a while, everything was fine.

It wasn't until he looked to his side that he jumped and let out a gasp. Walking down the sidewalk, George was passing by windows and storefronts, large glass paneling. When he'd looked to the side, he'd seen his reflection.

He tentatively glanced back up at the glass, but this time, instead of seeing his reflection, he saw something else. Something behind him. He turned. There, on the other side of the street, was a barber's shop.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but he didn't regret it one bit. He nodded to himself and crossed the street.

"Hi," he said, pasting a smile on his face as he entered the door, sending a bell chiming.

"Hey, sweetie," said an older woman behind the counter. "What can I do for you today?"

"Uh, I – I'd like to dye my hair," George said.

The woman nodded. "Alright then, honey. You can wait over there. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes." She gestured to a nearby chair. "We'll get you all taken care of."

George smiled his thanks and nodded. He stared out the window as he sat and waited, his mind empty.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, the woman called him over.

It took longer than he'd expected, having to go through bleaching his hair, finding the right color dye, and then rinsing the dye throughout his hair.

When he left the shop, sporting hair a blinding shade of electric blue, George actually smiled slightly as he walked down the street. He even let out a full grin when a attractive young man winked at him as they passed each other on the sidewalk.

Only one person in the world had known that George was gay. That one person was, of course, Freddie. George had realized it after having an odd encounter in Madam Puddifoot's teashop in his fourth year. He'd told Fred immediately.

His twin had just smiled and nodded. "Somehow, I thought so," he had said when George said he had something to tell him. "Just between you and me, I think Oliver is too. He just hasn't noticed it yet."

George remembered hugging his brother tightly after that conversation. The twins had never been very touchy-feely, neither very keen on the chick-flick moments, but they couldn't help how close they were as brothers and friends.

George made his way back home, trying to keep his mind off the thoughts of Fred's death. The sun had come out from behind the clouds, and he wasn't cold anymore. He ran a hand through his blue hair as he walked, wondering what Fred would've thought about it.

As he pushed opened the front door of the Burrow a while later, an echo ran through the kitchen. "George Weasley!" The screech made George wince. He turned and faced his mother. Molly Weasley, despite her harassed and grief-ridden appearance, still managed to look fearsome, but George wasn't easily put down anymore.

"What did you do?" His mother said furiously, wiping her hands on a towel and coming over to him.

"What're you talking about, Mother?" George asked innocently. His voice was plain and empty, and though he knew exactly what his mother was referring to, he didn't have the strength to deal with the drama right now.

"Your hair. Why've you changed it to that indecent color?"

George scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I don't think I have to answer to you anymore, Mother."

"You may be an adult but you at least owe me an explanation," Molly said firmly.

George turned around and went towards the staircase. "Do I though?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Don't walk away from me like that," Molly ordered. "We're still a family."

George swallowed.

"Okay then," he said, turning around once more to face his mother. "You want to know why I dyed my hair? Why I've changed it to this "indecent color"? Because every time I look in a mirror, every time I see a piece of glass, every _damn_ time I go to the freakin' bathroom, I see _him_! I see Freddie! And I get reminded that he's gone! I'm reminded of what I've lost. And you know what that is?"

George continued as his mother stood speechless. "Everything. I lost _everything_. Hell, even the store is in shambles because I can't even consider going back there right now. I was barely able to go into our old room yesterday because all I see is him." George was shouting furiously now. "And I can't stand it anymore! Because unlike you, I look just like him, and unlike you, I lost not only my brother, but my best friend too, and I won't pretend that my family is the same when it isn't."

He was breathing deeply and his fists were clenched, shaking. "That's why I dyed my hair, Mother. Because every time I see myself, I see him. And _every_ time I see him or picture him lying there on the floor, I want to be with him."

And with that, George spun on his heel and took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

George hardly spoke to anyone for a week. He'd gone to stay with Bill and Fleur that evening, both of whom were happy to have him. Shell Cottage was a much easier place for George to be at the moment. It didn't hold any of the memories that tore at him from the inside out. And it didn't have his mother. Molly had come over a few times, presumably to apologize and see how he were doing, but every time she did George would discreetly disapparate or have Fleur say he wasn't there.

He tried to hold on to the good things that had happened. The war ending, Harry, Ron, and Hermione being safe again, things like that. But every time a good thought found its way to the front of his mind, a pang of fear and brokenness accompanied it.

One day, without really knowing why, George felt the urge to go to the shop. He didn't bother putting on his coat. After all, Fred was dead. What did it matter if he got rained on? He didn't deserve his health anymore, not when Fred had been killed by an explosion.

He trudged through the puddle-filled streets of Diagon Alley, ignoring the intense cold he felt as his clothes were drenched and goosebumps popped up all over his skin.

A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the shop, looking up at its brightly painted walls, looking grim and depressed in the rainy afternoon. George swallowed as he tightened his fist around his wand for what must've been the hundredth time. He stepped up to the doorway, unlocked the Muggle locks they'd put in place, and stepped inside. The place was a mess. It had only been three weeks, but apparently that was long enough for a family of rats to set up camp.

George swallowed again as he looked around. He tried to take a step forward, but his feet seemed to be nailed to the floor. His legs were shaking. The building was closing in around him as he fell to his knees. His hands started to tremble as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand.

"It should've been me!" he screamed all of a sudden. His voice echoed around the empty boxes and the dusty shelves. A box sitting on the floor nearby caught his eye and he reached out with his wand, blasting it across the room. He flung sparks across the floor, and he caught sight of a rat jumping into the air before falling to the floor, limp.

"Freddie, you should be here! Not me!" There was no response.

"How am I ever supposed to go on without you, Freddie," George sobbed. "I'm scared. Help me not be."

As he sat on the floor, numb, cold, George took his wand and pressed it to his forearm again. _"Diffindo,"_ he whispered. Blood started to drip from his arm, a large gash now residing there.

It hurt like hell, but George didn't care. Blood trickled down his arm, as a soft knock came from behind him.

"Go away," he muttered weakly. "Just leave me alone."

"That's not gonna happen," a quiet voice said. Soft footsteps approached him, stopped suddenly, and then George saw a pair of knees kneel down in front of him.

"Oh my god, George."

George looked up. His eyes were so swollen from crying that everything appeared blurry, but he could recognize that tall, burly figure anywhere. It was Oliver.

"Oliver," he croaked out. His hand was shaking as he dropped his wand, the tip coated in blood.

George watched blearily as Oliver withdrew his own wand and cleaned away the blood. He took George's hand gently in his own. _"Episkey,"_ he murmured, healing the cut so only red skin and a light mark remained.

"How –– how'd you know I was here?" George asked numbly, staring at his own hand which was clasped in Oliver's.

"I wanted to see you," the older one replied simply. "Molly said you'd be at Shell Cottage, but when you weren't there, I came here. It was the first place I thought of."

George didn't reply.

"I'm glad I found you," Oliver added.

"Please go away," George said again.

"I want to help you, George. Please, let me," Oliver begged.

"You'd be helping me the most if you'd just leave me alone."

"George, don't do this. Fred wouldn't want to see you hurt."

Hearing his brother's name, George flinched.

"It should've been me," he said again. "It should've been me, OIiver. Freddie didn't deserve this. He should be alive right now."

"George, you listen to me," Oliver said, his voice firm but still gentle. "I miss Fred too. I miss him a lot, but he's gone. He's gone, and he would want you to live."

"But – but," George stammered. "There has to be a way to get him back, Ollie, there's just gotta be. I – I can't keep living like this. I'm not strong enough for this."

Oliver reached out and lifted George's chin to look at him. "Listen to me, George," he said. "It's not whether you get knocked down; it's whether you get up. You are strong enough. I know it, and Fred knows it too"

George shook his head. "No. I can't do this anymore, Oliver. I'm sorry."

George slowly got up as he snatched up his wand. "I'm sorry, Oliver," he repeated. "But there's no way I can live without him."

"George, wait. What're you doing?" Oliver yelled. He tried to take George's wand from him but George backed away faster than Oliver could catch him.

"No, Oliver. Don't. I have to do this," George's voice cracked. "I c-can't live without him. I just can't. And I don't even want to try. I'm tired. I'm tired of everything."

"George, you're stronger than this!" Oliver yelled. "Please, please, listen to me!"

George continued to back away.

"You can't do this, George. Is this what you want? To make others feel the pain that _you_ can't bear?"

George stopped. "What do you mean?"

"You want to die, because you can't live without Fred. But what about the people that can't live without you? Your brothers and sister? Your parents? Your friends?" He hesitated. "Me."

Oliver, taking advantage of George's hesitation, reached out with a hand, gently pulling George towards him.

Their lips touched and George, taken aback, lowered his wand. After a second, he pulled away. "What was that?" he gasped.

"A reason," Oliver replied.

"A reason for what?"

"A reason for you to live."

* * *

**Theme usage: Spell Damage: "Look at how spells can affect a witch or wizard positively or negatively." The war was full of spells, causing Fred's death; spells are also used in this story via self harm and George's outburst towards the end.**

**Prompt usage: Obviously George is heartbroken over Freddie's death. The quote was used in the ending scene because I thought it was poignant and maybe something George could repeat to himself to try and pick himself back up after the war. And then fear. George is terrified of living and continuing in this world without Fred, his other half. Hope that helps. Judges? **


End file.
